Chapter 8

"In the face of the trauma that was rocking our world, desperation took hold of even our strongest hearts. General Zod, unable to cope with the reality that his actions had doomed our planet to its death, railed against the SCience Council. He accued them of negligence, of daming the world, and at every turn pushed his failures on others. In a desperate attempt to exert control over the fate of our dying planet, he raided the chambers of the Science Council, killing at least one of the revered members of Krypton before sending his forces across the planet. I was among his first targets, among the few he thought that could save the planet from its fate. I knew otherwise and, instead, sought a way to save my only son. You, Kal-El."

-Jor-El

"My fellow Americans," the voice said calmly, pleasant and firm. "Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Eve, an evening on which we parade and celebrate an annual holiday. We ask ourselves, what does it mean to be American? More importantly, what does it mean to be human? When you elected me almost four years ago, I promised that I Would seek to secure the future for your children. Over the years, I havebolstered our international efforts, hunting down terrorist elements such as Al-Qaeda. I have sought out their greatest leaders, and at every turn tried to secure our borders and national security."

President Luthor paused, sucking in a deep breath. "Not everyone has agreed with my decisions. Some have second guessed me before I could even initiate my programs, legally sanctioned by Congress. Regardless of this mistrust, regardless of how we have so often tried to fight our fellow Americans in the name of a better future, I am here to tell you that I love this country and its people. I believe, wholeheartedly, that mankind has an opportunity unique in the universe to become a shining example of truth, justice, and all we hold dear as a species. We have learned through difficulty, revolution and civil war that the rights we cherish most are only hard won, through great effort and sacrifice. This is a sacrifice we must all make, either as soldiers on the battlefield, or civilians in our homes as we willingly pay a higher price for goods, so that the extra profits benefit our military efforts.

"Nothing good comes easy, or cheap. It takes a daily renewal and sacrifice. I came from a broken home, the son of a father more interested in aggressive economic expansion than lovingly caring for his family. Yet here I stand, elected by the people, an example of what it is to be hurt, broken, abused, and yet altogether human. You chose me to lead you, and though not all my decisions have pleased all people, I have tried. What I ask, as our Thanksgiving approaches, is that you understand everything I've done is to make our people, not even America, but the world, a more secure and prosperous generation. Though in the moment it is difficult to see, I hope that, in years gone by, you will look back and believe that everything I have done as president has been because I believe in our race, mankind."

He paused, eyes staring ahead. "Tomorrow I will have the great honor of watching the annual Metropolis Thanksgiving Eve parade. For the past few years, in my role as president, it's something I've been unable to see. Whether due to military crisis, economic necessity, or the everyday pressures of my office, I have never been afforded a chance to watch the pleasantries of the Metropolis parade. It is a uniquely American experience, though the bonds we share as humans, celebrating our triumphs and sacrifices, makes this holiday one we share with the world."

Lex glanced down, eyes watering slightly before he looked back at the camera. "God bless you, and God bless America."


"I'm just not sure about the direction you want to take," Lucius Fox said, his silky voice rising above the tumultuous arguments rising in the board room of Wayne Enterprises. "Look, I'm on board with some of what you're saying. Does it feel like we're being unfairly targeted by the auditors? Yes. Do I think Lex might be focusing some of his ire on the company? Of course I do, but that doesn't mean he actually has anything on Wayne Enterprises. I can guarantee you there are no secret projects, no diversions of funds. We itemize every single expense we make and make those reports publicly available. So, to all of you who are sitting here, wondering whether Mr. Wayne is-"

A sudden click from the doorway leading into the conference room stopped him in mid delivery, the business suit clad gentlemen all turning at once to see the imposing figure that stepped within. Bruce had always been tall, but over the years the sheer muscle he'd put on was visible even beneath the folds of his suit. His strong jaw, the intelligence in his eyes, and more than anything, that determined stare he had whenever he applied himself to something, all marked him as a far different person than the one he'd been even just a few years before.

"Excuse me, members of the board," he said, that calm, cool voice of his ringing throughout the room. "May I join in on this conversation? I do believe this is still my company."

Fox grinned slightly, eyeing his employer. "Mr. Wayne. I don't believe any of us could say no if we wanted to."

Bruce nodded slightly, returning the smile as he stepped up to the table, the long line of investors on either side staring up at him in a mix of both hesitation and awe. Over the years, the wealthy billionaire's image had fluctuated wildly, like a person with bipolar disorder. Early on, Bruce had come across as a lackadaisical playboy, jaunting from party to party, wearing women on his elbows and dazzling the Gotham glitterati with his charm, wit and, above all, money. It was an image that he flashed to this day from time to time, and it made seem incredibly shallow. Mixed in with that shallow imagery, which members of the board can increasingly come to see as a mask, was a man with a sense of determination that few others possessed. At first little more than a man child living off the wealth of the revered Dr. Thomas Wayne, Bruce had come into his own. The charity foundations he'd started to benefit the city were known as some of the best in the country, and he committed a fraction of his vast wealth to supporting and funding inner city programs, providing computers, new books and scholarships to students from elementary school to high school. The Thomas Wayne Foundation had tripled its budget under Bruce's oversight, providing free medical clinics throughout the city, including the city's notoriously crime ridden Park Row. Also known as Crime Alley, it was the site of Thomas and Martha Wayne's death years before, and was a place Bruce visited at least annually to commemorate their passing. In his mother's memory, he'd also tripled the budget of the Martha Wayne Foundation. Under its leadership, the city had gone about a massive refurbishing effort, placing works of art in public places, restoring the ancient gothic architecture, the art deco elements, creating public parks for children, hiring new teachers for schools and establishing orphanages for the many children who'd lost parents to Gotham's violent tendencies.

Wayne had also shown himself to be a surprisingly deft businessman. While many had wondered whether he had the capacity to lead the company at the outset, Bruce had guided them from an already profitable U.S. corporation to an international competitor in the fields of biotech, weapons development, transportation, electronics, not to mention its growing presence in the media. Its acquisitions over the last few years included the Daily Planet, giving it a presence in traditional media, as well as the former Scott Telecommunications, which allowed them to profit from television partnerships throughout the country. It's fledgling internet projects were only just being developed, but the stock holders had little doubt in Bruce's ability. Whatever they thought of his playboy image, they also knew he was a firm leader who'd never led the company to a losing quarter on the stock market.

"So I'm assuming that the current concern involves President Luthor's concerns about our company?" he asked, walking halfway down the side of the table, eyes moving from face to face. "Am I in the ballpark?"

"You'd be right, Mr. Wayne," Lucius returned, nodding. "More than a few of our board members have expressed concern about the way that Wayne Enterprises is spending the funds we're getting from the government. They also want to know how we're going to respond to these inquiries and audits. Not minor concerns, to be fair."

"Of course," Bruce said, returning down the side of the table, walking slowly, deliberately. "Now, I know that you're all anxious about these audits. I'm not the happiest about them, either. However, the best thing I can do is assure you that we here at Wayne Enterprises have never misappropriated funds, never skimmed from the top. Every dime we get goes toward the project it was intended for."

He reached the end of the table, turning slightly, his muscular profile framed in the doorway. "Our latest, and largest defense contract was for a new, highly mobile stealth fighter, the SF-40. You've all seen the specs, know what it can do. It's a VTOL aircraft, a design that other contractors have had trouble implementing but that we seamlessly integrated, allowing it to take off and land vertically without the needs for runways. It's got an incredibly lean profile and its surface is made of composite materials. Combined with its electronics package, our design is almost invisible to radar and virtually impossible to spot at night, making it an impressive stealth craft. Combined with its onboard weapons payload, our design has been vetted, and an incredibly detailed expense report produced to illustrate where all of our money went during the design and production of this piece of technology. Of course, in the creation of new technology, you won't always be able to be successful at every turn. Some designs did not perform the way we thought, and certain elements had to be scratched. We turned out variants that weren't as successful as we'd planned, and were forced to disassemble and recreate our fighter. That bloats the budget and creates some discrepancies in the expense reports, but by and large, it's fairly easy to see that 90% of the money is cleanly accounted for. When you take into consideration the loss of some elements, you can see where discrepancies pop up, but nothing of such concern that the board should be concerned by our auditors."

Of course, what Bruce failed to mention as he sweet talked his investors was the fact that many of those pieces that were disassembled for reuse had found their way into Lucius Fox's private laboratory and production facility, an engineer's paradise where he and his small team were given free reign to produce whatever they wanted. While those working directly under Fox simply assumed they were playing with new designs meant for military inspection, Fox and Wayne knew otherwise, though the simplicity of the ruse was its genius. Under the guise of creating new designs for the U.S. Air Force, they'd managed to go through two generations of Batwing designs. Their latest incarnation was, for all intents and purposes, a modified version of the SF-40. Its emphasis was heavier on stealth and speed than weapons payload, though it maintained an electronics package that allowed it to scramble enemy detection and did retain some limited weaponry, just in case. Not that Bruce hoped to ever use the weapons. He abhorred killing. As a man who refused to even pick up a traditional gun, be it a pistol or rifle, the notion of having missiles aboard his jet made him incredibly uncomfortable. Still, if he ever needed to blow out a bridge or something, he had the payload to do it.

"Mr. Wayne," a voice interrupted, asking from close to Lucius. "None of us think you're skimming the top, or anything like that. What's a few million to a man with your fortune? More importantly though, some of us worked with, and knew your father, quite closely. Regardless of whether we've always been confident in your decisions, I think I can safely say that we all feel you inherited his sense of integrity and honesty. A look at the Wayne Foundation's work in Gotham can tell us that."

Bruce paused, unsure of how to respond. Not given to extreme displays of emotion and seeped into his vigilante persona most of the time, he rarely indulged his feelings. Still, the mere thought of being compared to with his father, whom he'd seen as being the personification of honesty and integrity, was humbling. It was, undoubtedly, the highest honor he felt he could be given, and it was enough to stop him for just a moment as he composed himself. "I... ah..." He coughed, clearing his throat. "Thank you, Mr. Gervins. There's no way for me to properly convey how much that means."

"Of course Mr. Wayne. If I may say one more thing though?"

"Yes?"

"While none of us are worried about your integrity, sir, we do worry about this investigation. We all know Wayne Enterprises and LexCorp have been battling it out in similar fields for years now. It's distressing that we have to deal with this much scrutiny. It makes us worry about our investments."

Wayne nodded, acknowledging the concern. "I don't know for sure that President Luthor has anything to do with this. None of us do, really, even if it does seem suspicious. I'd like every member of the board to think about this. If the President of the United States were to use a wing like the I.R.S. to coerce or harm a former business competitor, it would be a national scandal. He'd be torn apart in the media. Remember, Wayne Enterprises influences 20% of the broadcasts made nationally. Among others, our news networks would be taking him to task for something like that, and we're not the only ones that would. The media loves a good story, after all, and a president lowering himself to using the government as a tool for personal vendettas would crush any chance he had at a second term. So, to be frank, I don't think looking any closer into this investigation will do us any good. In the off chance Luthor had ordered these audits to further his business agenda, you wouldn't find it in writing. A word, said here or there, to the right people would be enough. I doubt we'll find any smoking gun."

He raised a finger. "It should be obvious I'm not concerned about the audits but, that said, we have a legitimate economic squeeze happening. The loss of government contracts has severely limited Wayne Enterprise's income. Our investments into entertainment and media still aren't leading to profits, and even many of our biotech research was oriented around government funding. We're going to start marketing to the private market, a failing I will take personal responsibility for. It's difficult to predict when a third of your income is suddenly going to vanish, at what seems the whim of a vengeful president. That said, for now, I'd tighten your belts. This may be the company's first quarter in which we're forced to declare a loss and I have no doubt our stock is soon going to have its first losing quarter since I took ownership. I hope you can bear with me during this trying time."

There were murmurs and grumbles from around the table, but no outright complaints. Each one of these men was wealthier now than they had been when Bruce had taken control, and had little to balk about. They might not like the news, but Bruce had been good to them far more often than not over the years. As the talking settled down, Wayne folded his arms, standing at the head of the table as his gaze moved between their faces. "Now, before I go. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Eve. Do yourselves a favor, gentlemen. Each one of you is aware of the loss I suffered when I was young. The deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne affected this city greatly, even if some have forgotten, or never knew, the influence they had. What they were to this city, people who fought to inspire and better it, is something that will be with me until my final breath. As people, though, they are gone. There has not been a Thanksgiving I've been able to spend with them since they passed away those many years ago. So, use the next two days wisely, and stop thinking about your wallets, and more about your families. Be with them, and be thankful for them. We don't get to pick the day we pass on, but we can control how we spend the time we have." He nodded, turning away. "Happy Thanksgiving, gentlemen."


Clark eyed the records in front of him, passing through a number of papers that he'd laid out on his desk at the Daily Planet. Behind him, the chattering, ringing of phones and other distractions might have managed to keep him from his work if not for the fact that he was so focused on what was in front of him. "Maximus Delivery Company," he mumbled, picking up the sheets and shuffling them once again. "Tech deliveries to multiple weapons developers contracted with the government. During this same period, LexCorp declares record financial profits. LexCorp stock skyrockets, Wayne Enterprises and Queen Industries stock plummets. That's no coincidence."

He picked up another set of papers. "Maximus Delivery Company. Contracted with Miles Agriculture and Farming to deliver food to major urban centers in the U.S., with an emphasis on Metropolis, Gotham City and Star City. Again, that can't be a coincidence. The man behind Maximus is Jack White. The man funding Miles Agriculture is, again, Jack White."

He picked up a final few sheets of paper. "This month, Smallville Banks begins to foreclose on homes and call in debts. Why?" He looked over the reports in front of him, shaking his head. "Smallville Banking recently warned that it might be restricting lines of credit and adjusting its loans so, it was getting squeezed, somehow." His eyes switched to another set of papers. "Miles Agriculture also recently declared they'd be shifting assets out of the area. It's a publicly traded company, and has a set of investors, one of the largest of whom is Jack White. So this decision would have had to come from the board of directors."

Then there was this, which he'd just gotten from a report Jimmy had filed with him. A few years before, a Jack White had been active in Gotham City, where Maximus Delivery Company had been hired. The product he'd been working on was engineered plant life that would respond in unique ways to the presence of various chemicals, allowing them to introduce certain types of chemicals that would kill pests but stimulate an aggressive response from the plants, allowing them to ignore and fight off the effects of the chemical agents. It was genius, a simple and effective way to create plants that could be stimulated by chemicals to produce multiple, bountiful crops, but also resists the elements of weather and insects. This all came back to one man.

He'd had enough. Stepping away from his desk he rushed back to his vehicle, gritting his teeth at the need to use it just to get out of town and keep up appearances. Still, as he plowed away through the highways and into the amber fields that surrounded the countryside around Metropolis, he had time to think. His teeth, grinding upon one another as he simmered in his anger, began to ache. The vehicle ushered him forward at a slow seventy miles per hour, the distant image of Miles Agriculture slowly coming into view as he did. Almost immediately after he entered the parking lot he was flying out the door, into its hallways and rushing past the reception desk.

"Mr. Kent!" cried out the young woman at the front, but Clark paid no attention, jamming his hand against the doors and forcing them open as he rushed into Miles' office. For a moment he was once again possessed by nostalgia. So often, as a young man, he'd found himself rushing to Lex's mansion and entering as if it was his own home, as if Lex owed him an audience. It was a horrible sense of privilege he'd tried to repress over the years, but at the moment he found it impossible to maintain full control of himself.

"Miles!" he said, not shouting, but firm and angry. "We need to talk."

The receptionist rushed into the room, breathing heavily. "I'm so sorry Mr. Miles, he just walked right past me, didn't even give me a chance to stop him..."

Miles Joseph got to his feet, waving her away. "No, it's fine. Mr. Kent and I will have a talk."

She nodded, allowing the door to close. Miles got to his feet, walking toward the front of the desk and leaning back, slightly seated on its front edge. "How can I help you, Mr. Kent."

"You're not really running Miles Agriculture. Jack White is."

Miles' face twitched slightly. "And why would you say that?"

"I've got record of Maximus Delivery Company running tech through three cities. Who owns it? Jack White. All your products are shipped through the same three cities. I've got Smallville Banking suddenly squeezing farmers and foreclosing right after you decided to move your money out of the town. Who's on the board that makes those decisions? Jack White." Clark's fists clenched up as he tried to steady his voice. "Where is Maximus headquartered? Gotham. And guess who used to work in Gotham producing genetically modified crops that could withstand chemical compounds like pesticides?"

Miles shook his head, glancing away. "Mr. White."

"So why the ruse, Miles? Why the front? Who is this guy?"

"Mr. White likes his privacy, Mr. Kent. Whatever grand conspiracy you think is taking place, White's just trying to make a dollar. He doesn't like to be in the public eye, so I'm the face of the company."

"And how'd you two meet?"

"Well, I've never actually met him, face to face. He works through two proxies, one a Ms. Sharon Quinn and the other a Ms. Vana Gravas. I met Ms. Vana Gravas, years ago, as a junior executive at LexCorp. She said she was headhunting for Mr. White, trying to get his product to market, but that he was incredibly reclusive and unwilling to front the company himself. What else could I do in my position? I wanted to be free to run my own company, to forge its own success, so I took the opportunity I was given."

"So your first contact was Ms. Vana Gravas."

"Yes, though we rarely see each other anymore. Over the last year she's been replaced by Ms. Sharon Quinn. Meetings here concerning Mr. White's needs or requests are held with her. All phone calls go through her. At our board meetings, she proxies for him." He chuckled, shaking his head. "To be honest with you, now that I think about it, I've never actually heard Mr. White. Still, he's the one with the money, though I have substantial holdings of my own now. I was actually thinking off spinning off my own company from this one too, but wanted to wait until the end of the quarter to let her know. It's bad business for a company's president to suddenly up and leave, and after all Mr. White's done for me, the least I could do is give him some forewarning about my departure."

Clark shook his head, placing a palm to his face for half a second. "None of this seems odd to you? At all? That you've never met this Mr. White, or that he's putting this squeeze on Smallville?"

"He wants the land, Mr. Kent. The more fields he has, the more he can produce, the more he can sell. Again, it's no huge conspiracy. It's just business."

Clarke turned about, unconvinced, but happy at least that he had a few more leads to follow. "Well thanks for the impromptu meeting, Mr. Miles."

"Mr. Kent, may I say, sincerely, that I hope this is the last one we ever have."